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The day is a dismal gray, windy and eerie. The unsteadiness of the footage mimics the anxiety of the bystander who is capturing the dubious fate of another unarmed black man. It is the first Saturday in April 2015, in North Charleston, S.C. The stain of a bloody conscience permeates the air and leaves a trail to the executioner. Through a rusty metal fence, surrounding an empty lot of patchy grass, Walter L. Scott, a 50 year old father of four, ends a scuffle with an officer and runs for his life. In a split second, the officer reaches for his gun. Cowardice, a stealthy culprit, finds no reason in logic. It whispers the falsehood of power in his ear and places his index finger on the trigger, while the victim's back is turned. One shot is not enough to get his fix for the day. He needs eight. It would have been more, had it taken the victim longer to fall. "Shots fired," he reports on his radio as he walks nonchalantly to Mr. Scott whose body lays lifeless faced down on the ground. "Oh shit," is all the bystander could muster, on the other side of the fence, as he follows the officer with his camera to Mr. Scott's body. The officer, a mere gunman at this juncture, is ready to set the scene in his favor. "Put your hands behind your back," he yells repeatedly, as he handcuffs Mr. Scott, who is out cold. He runs back to the spot of the initial scuffle to pick up an object, which he intends to place by Mr. Scott's body. A second officer has already arrived, so he slows his pace on his way back to the body and discreetly drops the object near Mr. Scott. Understating the deadly encounter and the fundamental evidence this local horror show provides, the bystander says, "Fucking abuse. Fucking abuse man." This was murder.